There's Always a Way
by ImThatTypeOfGirl
Summary: They say that right before you die, your life flashes before your very eyes. So which life did Booker see? One-shot.


**A/N: Hoshiz, possibly the most trippy game I have ever played – but amazing. Utterly amazing. I freaking **_**loved**_** it! I was nearly crying at the end, so I had to fix things a little. Y'know, as you do. Heartbroken author + tweakable finale = alternate ending fanfiction. Sorry, rambling, I know, I'm awful :D Also, apologies, if someone's already done this sort of idea (which I suspect they have), I'm just another fan, please don't kill me :( Also, I haven't played the other Bioshock games, so if you drop a comment about them I'll have no idea what you're talking about ;) And on that note: **_**do**_** leave a comment please, it would be much appreciated xx**

**Disclaimer: I don't Bioshock: Infinite's characters, plot and whatever else there is to own.**

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**BIOSHOCK: INFINITE**

**There's Always a Way**

They say that right before you die, your life flashes before your very eyes. You see all of your mistakes, all of your regrets, all of the things you loved and wouldn't ever change. But what if you could see each and every one of your lives and how they would play out? What if you didn't know which was the best to remember as you left? The laughs, the tears, the lovers, the parties, the dancing, the lights and the amazement of it all…

So which life did Booker see?

There was the sound of the ocean, the sound of voices above him, the sound of wind through leaves. Maybe as he fell into his own darkness it would still be there. He dearly hoped so; it was remarkably soothing. He could feel the blind panic in his chest, no matter how hard he tried to supress it. It was there, fluttering in fright, like a caged bird. A caged bird…now where had he heard _that_ before? The waters closed over his head, hands forcing him down, forcing him to face his fate. Underneath everything, he knew that this had to be it. Was there any other way out?

Images, places, scattered bits of memory flickered across his vision. Elizabeth, stained with Fitzroy's blood, Elizabeth, dancing on the pier at the beach, Elizabeth, ripped away from him by Songbird. Elizabeth. She was always there, always looking at him, always knowing what was to come. Had she known all this time? Like him; a niggling feeling at the corners of his mind? Maybe she had, and didn't want to say. But now there was no going back.

Elizabeth, amidst her amazing library, Elizabeth, picking a thousand different locks, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. _Why_ was she always there, wherever he turned? Was _he_ there, wherever _she _looked? Perhaps. Did it really matter now? This was the end. He let himself sink into the images again, almost relaxing into the slowing of his breath, into the drooping of his lids. Elizabeth, ponytail in hand, Elizabeth, in front of Lady Comstock's statue, Elizabeth, opening a Patriot Tear, Elizabeth, drawing…

Elizabeth…_drawing._

Drawing? No, that couldn't be right. When had he seen her _draw_? That couldn't be…could it? No. He had never seen her draw. But the memory was so clear and so bright and so _real _he was beginning to doubt himself. Suddenly the panic flared in his chest, burning like a bonfire, crackling against his ribs. He resurfaced, broke the waters of the lake, gasping for breath, eyes glimpsing images of Elizabeth, distorted and shining with water. Then he was swallowed by darkness again, felt the pressure on his arms, and down and down and down he sank…

But now he was sure. Something didn't add up. The images danced more fluidly now, melting into one another, dripping like fresh watercolour. But these were _his_, these were comfortable and familiar and genuine. These memories he saw were actually _memories_. In his heart, he knew all of a sudden. He knew there was another way. He could see Elizabeth. A thousand Elizabeth's. And all of them were his. Elizabeth, his daughter. Elizabeth, his package. Elizabeth, his friend. Elizabeth…his wife.

"Booker, take a _break_," she smiled, dancing over to him, slipping her arms around his shoulders. He barely glanced up from his work, barely acknowledged her presence. His pen scratched across the paper, blue ink flowing from the soft, pointed nib. Elizabeth sighed and pulled up a chair, not quite able to squeeze in beside him at the desk. She sat for a moment, watching him, tapping her fingers impatiently on the oak. After a few minutes she snatched a pen from the bureau and a couple of slips of paper. Taking off the lid, she started drawing.

_That _caught his attention. A first he was merely curious; still trying to keep up some kind of pretence of working while he watched her. Her hands moved steadily across the page, beautiful blue eyes wide with concentration. The way she drew was almost professional; very light, and careful, before going over the lines in a darker ink to define the art. He put down his own pen and leaned over. His chin brushed the shoulder of her blouse, his eyes studying her sketch intensely. All appearances of working had vanished; he was focused entirely on Elizabeth's drawing.

As the piece began to fill out, he could make out the rugged, beautiful feathers of a bird. It was bound by the metal bars of a cage, confined to the small space inside. Its eyes were large and sad, while its legs were thin and rough with enormous, glinting talons. There was a dark beauty to the picture, and Booker smiled to see it.

"You're quite the artist," he murmured, tilting his head towards her own.

"I've been taking classes," she said proudly, placing her pen against the page and examining her work. "I'm getting quite good, don't you think?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, turning back to his own papers. But Elizabeth wasn't about to let him off that easy.

"C'mon, Booker!" she complained, getting to her feet. "Just stop for a _moment_; you've been working since noon!"

He glanced up. Indeed, and he'd never noticed as the sun had sank lower in the sky. It skimmed the tops of the buildings, reflecting off of open windows and the ocean in the distance. The window to their bedroom was open, white fabric curtains fluttering at the surface of the window ledge and then suddenly bursting out into the evening city as an updraft of wind caught their downy wings. Elizabeth moved over to it, her long-sleeved white blouse ruffling slightly as she re-tucked it into a knee-length navy skirt. She stared out into the dusk, sighing softly, hand resting gently on the rounded bump of her stomach. Booker exhaled, ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and pushed away from his desk. The work didn't matter much anymore – he could always do it later. Right now, he had something that needed him more. Some_one_ that needed him more.

"Hey," he said softly, crossing the floor to stand beside Elizabeth. She remained facing away from him, skin lit in a golden glow by the setting sun. Hair long chocolate locks had been swept back into a low ponytail at the nap of her neck, held tight by a velvet black ribbon, and they reflected an odd hazelnut in the dying sunlight. He reached out and ran a hand down her arm, thumb playing with a crease in her sleeve. But she didn't look up, didn't even blink. When she still wouldn't respond, he took her face in his hands and gently turned her to look him in the eye.

"I'm okay," she smiled. "Really."

He kissed her delicately, rough lips barely grazing her smooth, silken ones. "You don't _sound_ fine."

"I'm…" she pulled away slightly. "I've been thinking."

He drew back sharply. "Now, Elizabeth, that's dangerous, you know that," he teased.

She chuckled lightly. "What I'm saying, Booker, is that I think we need to get away for a while. Don't you agree? We've been cooped up in here forever. I can't draw anything new unless I have something new _to draw_."

He laughed. "Well, that's true. It's always a bird, isn't it?"

She smiled. "And there's always a cage."

He pressed his forehead to hers, and wrapped her up in his arms. "And there's always a girl."

She laughed, very softly, and her hands moved to flatten down the collar of his shirt. "Don't change the subject, Mr. DeWitt."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he chuckled, fingers brushing the hollows of her neck, catching the loose strands of hair falling delicately around her face.

"Let's go somewhere exciting," she breathed suddenly, eagerness glittering in her eyes. "Somewhere romantic! But…not too far away."

"But not too far away," he agreed, hands finding the bump of her stomach, and holding it carefully. She was four months along now, and they had already picked out names for the child. If it was to be a boy, they would call him Zachary. If it were a girl, she would be named Daisy. Booker smiled, thinking of the afternoon they had spent in the park, talking idly and coming up with the names as they'd counted clouds and watched the river trickle by.

"Ooh, let's go to Paris!" Elizabeth said, rousing Booker from his daydream. "Wouldn't Paris be just lovely? Beaches and flowers and ice cream and lighthouses - "

"Lighthouses aren't romantic," Booker interrupted her, laughing.

"Yes they are!" she protested. "To _me_, anyway. There's something mysterious and wonderful about guiding people home from the dangerous waters of the ocean…"

"So what is it about Paris?" Booker asked. "Or cities, in general. Whenever we go on holiday, it's to a city. There's _always_ a city. And there's _always_ a lighthouse."

She pouted and poked him in the chest. "There's always a _man_. Does that answer your question?"

He grinned. "Not really."

"It's not _where_ we go," she smiled, stealing a kiss from his lips that left behind the taste of sugar and raindrops and fresh snow. "It's _who _we go _with_."

And suddenly everything went very quiet, and very still, and his limbs felt numb and detached from himself. His mind was barely conscious, holding as tight as it could onto the fragments of a world he'd never lived, the fragment of a world he so desperately wanted to belong to. Because if there were so many lives and paths he was required to live and to walk for everyone else…amidst it all, could he not fabricate his own? A place he wanted with the people he loved, a world where living was bearable for the moments he craved the most?

So what _did_ Booker see, as the world became dark and the lights went out? Which of the lives did he choose to relive and to remember as he died? After the scene he had witnessed from the depths of his mind, the scene in the city with his wife and their child-to-be, the decision was simple.

With a rasping breath his head broke the surface, eyes stinging, lungs heaving. Elizabeth jumped back in fright, falling backward into the lake. At once he retched up the water in his system, got rid of the liquid dragging him down, and when he was done he wiped the saliva from his lips and spat into the pond. Hacking and coughing, he waited for the foul taste to leave his mouth. When he stood he felt strange and shaky, felt his lungs burning and his eyes smarting and the thumping panic beating hard in his chest. Elizabeth was frozen in the lake, staring up at him, eyes wide with shock.

"Booker, you can't - !" she began, but the look on his face stopped her.

"I think you'll find that I can." He waded through the water, not even bothering to help her to her feet as he passed. He didn't even look at her. He wasn't afraid anymore. He climbed up the hill as the sun slid beneath the earth and he found the little hut and he hauled the door open and he clambered through. He knew now that he _couldn't_ die; he'd left too much shit behind that he still had to deal with, and once that was all cleared up…there was still much more to do. If there was always a city, always a lighthouse, and always a man, then there must also always be a bird, always a cage, and always a girl. So he had a hundred, a thousand, a million doors to look through until he found the one he was looking for.

Because he wanted the place he had seen, as the life had faded from his limbs and the world had turned black around him. If he could create his own memories on the brink of death, memories he was so certain he had lived, surely he was able to actually create the_ world_ in which the memories took place, especially if he had lived them before? As he moved through the doors, one by one, a hundred by a hundred, a million after a million, Rosalind's voice came to him, distorted a little but loud enough for him to hear.

"_The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist."_

And maybe she was right. Maybe he had merely conjured those memories so he still had something to live and keep fighting for. But this feeling that was burning a hole in his chest, this feeling resonating through his bones, strong enough to make them break…_that_ was the reason he had abandoned hope of setting things straight. Because how does one define something as wrong, when every fibre of their being is shrieking that it is right?

At this rate, he might never find the door he wanted. At this rate, he might never find the ending he craved. At this rate, he might never have the future he had seen, the future he now knew he desired with all of his heart.

But he was damn well going to try.


End file.
